


All These Plans I've Been Chasing

by villaingotyourcat



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villaingotyourcat/pseuds/villaingotyourcat
Summary: You don't write lists.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 108





	All These Plans I've Been Chasing

i.

You don’t write lists.

Lists are for people with plans, purpose, potential. You asked your father, once, if you could take a trip to Moscow. He buys you a calendar and draws a big red circle around May 11th, promises you a weekend of you and him and all the beautiful mausoleums and museums. You cross out the days like coins you never threw in wishing fountains, spend all your time tracing your finger from your tiny town to the star that sits on top of Moscow.

A week later, you are locked in an orphanage in a town you do not recognize. Your mother tells you that you are strong instead of telling you that she loves you, tells you that she will only be gone a little while instead of telling you goodbye. 

In the orphanage, they do not lie to you like your mother did. They tell you when there is no food, when there are no coats for the winter, when there are no more empty cots. You learn to pickpocket on your way to school, learn to stuff your shoes with paper so you won’t catch frostbite, learn to sleep during school so the other children will not steal your socks while you sleep. They do not lie, so you believe them when they tell you that your family is dead. 

On May 11th, you burn the orphanage to the ground.

ii. 

For Anna, you make an exception.

You are excellent at French, but you like the way the pride shines in her eyes when you show her your vocabulary words in neat, even columns. You dedicate an entire notebook to earning the creases in her warm eyes, her perfectly accented praise, before you discover your lips against her neck, your head between her thighs have an even better effect. 

You don’t write another list for a long time.

iii.

Lists are the embodiment of mundanity, the mark of the unremarkable.

Lists are for people who forget, falter, fail. There has never been room for failure in your life; the world has dealt you enough failings to fill all the afterlives you don’t believe in. 

Konstantin in the prison feels a lot like hope for the first time in years. There is no time for planning; there are only the moments he will spend with you and the decision he will make. Your life is shit, but your intuition is good, far more reliable than the ever-moving carousel that draws people into and out of your life one by one. It does not let you down.

Konstantin is immediately charmed by you, and rightly so. You are delightful and funny, and he fights to keep from smiling as you gloss over the details of your jagged childhood. You have no attachments, no loyalties. You tell him about the man you murdered in cold blood. When he asks how it made you feel, you ask if he’s ever been drunk on his own power. His eyes say yes.

You do not tell him about the nights you still wake up shouting for Anna. You do not tell him about the way she looked between his corpse and your form, like there was no difference between his still heart and your own beating one. You do not tell him about the letters you still write to her. You do not tell him that you still feel.

iv.

You are constantly aware of all the things you do not have. 

You kill a woman on Tuesday while she squeals about her fiancé, desperate and shrill. She’s pallid in your arms when you decide her heart shaped locket would fit nicely in the hollow of your throat, so you pull it from her neck and clasp it around your own. You do not think the man lodged inside is handsome, but it is nice to pretend, if only for a week, that you are one of these women that wear lockets with their fiances inside.

You kill a man on Friday while he curses at you, red-faced and angry. He is an ugly man with a house far nicer than he deserves, and you linger long after he has stopped wheezing. In his garden shed, you find two bicycles tangled together. One of them has a little basket and a bell. You buy yourself a bicycle the next day, marigold yellow with a woven basket and a shiny bell. You spend the day riding through French vineyards on a self-guided tour, sampling expensive wine and soaking up the sun. 

On Monday there is a perfume and on Wednesday there are curtains and on Sunday there is a sculpture and you’d make a list, but you bore of the scent and the curtains block too much light and you look at the sculpture and feel as lifeless as the stone woman that stares back at you. Tuesday comes, and there is a pair of boots. You know of a lovely boutique downtown, so you take your purse and wait to feel something. 

v.

You wake with Eve’s hair in your mouth.

The morning air is warm, spilling through the open windows, and the drapes move easily in the summer breeze. One of her arms is slung across your torso; even in her subconscious, she reaches out for you. You take her small hand in your own, trace the lines beneath her skin and think of all the blood in her pretty veins. She stirs gently against you, curls into your warmth. You marvel as your heart turns over in your chest.

You think of her small hands wrapped around your waist as you danced, her inhales and exhales crawling up your spine. It’s a lovely thought, holding her without pretense. She’d be breathtaking in a dress the color of her freshly bitten lips as she hovers high above you, her hair loose around her face. You’d like to part her hair like curtains with your hands, soothe her skin with your tongue.

You think of her in a strawberry garden, berries like jewels beneath their leaves. You want to watch her eat them from the vine, juice dripping down her chin. You’d like to lick her face clean, taste the fruit on her tongue. You’d fill baskets together, share them in bed while you whisper dirty things into her mouth. There would be no place for fear or embarrassment, only the place where your want meets hers.

You think of her in an Italian church, eyes wide and bright as she learns just how luxurious worship can be. You want to get down on your knees for her, kiss the inside of her thighs while the saints watch from their stained windows. You’d leave bruises the color of communion wine as she thrashes against you, her hands reverent at the altar of your hips. You’d like to hear her voice echoing in the high ceilings, your name in her mouth as she cries out.

You think of her straddling Hélène’s body, her thighs bracketing the other woman’s hips. You want to watch as she plunges her knife through fancy clothes and bloated ego into the humanity concealed beneath. You’d like to watch her step on her chest until her ribs crack beneath her weight. She’d impale Hélène’s heart on her knife, lift it from her chest still beating, trembling with the rush of it all. 

You are excellent at everything you do, and writing lists will be no exception. You want to make your list on beautiful stationary with knots of morning glories climbing down the sides. You’d like to write with a feather quill dipped in fresh ink, your cursive letters flowing easily beneath your hand as you fill pages with the things you want to do for Eve, with Eve, to Eve. There is a place a few blocks away that will sell what you need. You can be back in fifteen minutes.

Eve stirs against you again, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. You run your hand through her hair, stroke her temple with your thumb until she opens her eyes. She reaches for you with both hands and kisses you with an open mouth. Your want seizes you with such intensity that it leaves you breathless, and you are victim to the rhythm of her hips, the darkness of her eyes. She rolls on top of you, and your mind empties.

Lists are overrated anyway.


End file.
